


dogbite

by catafalque



Series: the time between the seconds [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Clothed Sex, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inspired by Fight Club, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Slow Burn, Teenage Drama, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Crush, to be honest this was just really self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28495029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catafalque/pseuds/catafalque
Summary: heart's so dark make dirt look clean, so clean (so clean)don't kick, don't screambut at the end, I can only be
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus/Original Character(s), Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Series: the time between the seconds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087298
Kudos: 22





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,
> 
> This is something I've been working on for a while and I'm excited to share with you ^^ (yes, the title is a reference to 'Bitter Rivals' by Sleigh Bells https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xnd3XSJsRGs) 
> 
> A thousand thanks to the wonderful @ipomea for beta'ing this entire thing. Please check their work out if you like Death Stranding!
> 
> Some notes before we begin: this fic works backwards from the end and retraces events to the beginning. Everything written in third person takes place in the present and everything written in second person is a flashback. Starting from chapter two, the POV will shift between two characters' versions of the same events.

Early September, for some reason, is still blisteringly hot. 

Thus, the vents inside the school now blast perpetually freezing air to compensate. Summer break is over, but the cacophony of lunchtime exchanges over new tans, new clothes, and new classes fill the cafeteria with a dull roar.

The chatting lulls to a murmur with the entrance of a blond boy. He stands stone-faced, head and shoulders above the crowd, which gives him a wide berth. He collects his food and seats himself at an open table with slow, deliberate actions. Heads turn, eyes dart discreetly; he makes no acknowledgment if he notices—and they turn back to their friends, breaths released. 

The conversations sputter out completely as the far doors slam open with the arrival of a dark-haired student. He enters from the opposite side, on a pair of crutches. His left leg is in a black velcro brace and his forearm in bandages. The room is silent, save for the clicking of his crutch as he hobbles across the length of the cafeteria.

_ Is that really him? _

_ I thought he got arrested. How did he not get expelled? _

_ Did he really get pushed off of—No, I heard it was— _

There’s a harsh scrape of metal chair legs against linoleum, and the whispers die stillborn. The room makes no secret of watching this display unfold now. The newcomer seats himself at the table furthest from the blond, leaning his crutches against the side of an empty chair.

He stills for a moment and blinks as he takes notice of the stares for the first time since his entrance.

“Fuck’s the matter? Never seen a guy on crutches before?”

His low drawl echoes across the length of the room, almost deafening in the near silence. The blond looks up at him from across the room as he speaks, a slight downtilt to the corners of his lips. The other does not acknowledge his gaze, leaning back in his chair with folded arms to prop his injured foot atop the table.

Slowly, there’s shifting and coughing and sniffling as the spell is broken. The lunch crowds come to life again, turning back to their forgotten conversations.

The blond boy does not look away.

.

.

.

It’s a passing period when it happens.

There are a few alarmed shouts; people either scatter or accumulate along a half-ring in the corridor to gawk.

The blond has the injured boy up against the wall, fists bunching the collar of his shirt. The shorter of the two lets his crutches drop to the ground with a clatter, hands hanging limp at his sides. His head is turned to the side in a show of quiet defiance as he refuses to look the other in the face.

“There’s nowhere left to run,” the blond states flatly.

The injured boy chuckles mirthlessly and gestures to his leg.

“Not that I’m in much of a running state, I’ll give you that.”

At his response, the taller of the two softens his expression minutely. He brushes a thumb across the highest point of the dark-haired boy’s cheekbone.

“After all this time, do our deeds weigh so little that you would cast all aside?”

There’s a beat of silence before the smaller tilts his head slightly to glance at the other out of the corner of his eye. There’s an undercurrent of resentment seeping from his features, but his voice is even as he responds.

“Don’t think we need an encore performance  _ here _ , now do we?”

The blond jerks back and stiffens as if struck. His grip on the dark-haired boy loosens enough that the other is left to scrabble for his crutches, clutching the wall for support before he hits the ground.

“You know where to find me,” the bandaged boy calls over his shoulder as he begins to hobble back down the hallway.

_ “You always do,”  _ he mutters to himself beneath his breath, while the blond recedes in the distance, fixed to the spot among the wide-eyed crowd.


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry I'm a day late, yesterday got real busy and I didn't get around to posting 😅
> 
> A few notes; in this AU, Zenos is noticeably less bloodthirsty (as you can tell) as he hasn't quite reached that stage yet. His characterization here is based off of my interpretation from how he was depicted in the short story from Chronicles of Light. He's definitely more of the quiet, repressed, academic type, but there's very obviously *something* going on beneath it all. This fic will mostly detail that transformation.
> 
> That being said, please enjoy!

_ 10 months ago _

**Zenos**

  
  


Your schedule has been meticulously put together ever since you were old enough to remember. 

Shower, fencing practice, breakfast. School, then club activities: chess, debate team, drama club, student council. Your participation as student council president is "atonement" for your past misdeeds in your father's eyes, as far as that went—some long-winded speech about responsibility that you barely paid attention to.

If it weren't for that, you wouldn't bother partaking in such inane activities. The reason you're even attending a public school with "rabble," as your father liked to call the common folk, was due to your tantrum two summers ago where you beat your newest fencing tutor to a bloody pulp. The incident had been difficult to sweep under the carpet, as the instructor was supposedly a rather well-known public figure, and it had taken a considerable amount of money slipped under the table to stave off a potential lawsuit.

As punishment, your father pulled you out of Garlemald Academy and transferred you to Eorzea High for sophomore year. It's not that great of a school, even by public standards, but it's also not like you actually care. 

The student body here is just as nameless and faceless to you as it was back in Garlemald. Your "efforts" to placate your father are out of boredom, really. It's busywork, but nothing in your life "excites" you anyway. 

It's hard to say when you first noticed him. It seems as though you've always been in each other's' orbits. Twin moons, circling the same planet. 

You recall him in your first-period gym, skulking around in the back with the other kids not dressed in uniform. He’s not unathletic by any means despite his appearance; a bony 5’6 frame and a mop of shaggy blue-black that flops over his right eye while he kicks his feet up on the bleachers. The boisterous tower of a coach has forced him into participating on more than one occasion. 

He’s a good enough candidate for any sports team; a five-minute mile is not beyond him. But it’s just that—he’ll run the mile, score the goal, shoot the basket, and go back to lounging around. You’re not in the same class, just a shared gymnasium with different instructors. You would’ve longed for the chance to test yourself against him. Sometimes at lunch, you spot him at the edges of the cafeteria. He’s never alone then—always muttering to a gaggle of other students in shredded denim and piercings, who occasionally erupt with a bout of raucous laughter at some joke he cracks.

In these moments, you try to catch his eye—but he always averts his gaze from yours like a ripple on water.

Your table swarms with sycophants drawn in by the scent of your father’s money. It’s almost as bad as Garlemald, but not quite. There are less of them here, and the financial disparity causes the greater half of the student body to give you a wide berth. Your own effect on others is meaningless; he won’t look your way.

You begin to resent his presence. He’s an anomaly in your periphery, like a persistent hangnail. Maybe it’s the festering of this unseen wound that follows you into the next school year. You try to put the thought from your mind, but you still catch yourself watching him. And there are things you pick up—his locker number, his class schedules, the companions he associates himself with—inconsequential things. Information that simply files itself away for later contemplation in the depths of your mind.

You two barely share a schedule—you have all APs and honors, plus club activities and student government. Your brief glimpses of him are at lunchtime in the cafeteria and study hall. Your study hall teacher is an austere, traditionalist woman who assigns seating in reverse alphabetical order, under the belief that students with last names closer to the end of the alphabet are somehow more prone to delinquency.

There are two advantages to this. The first is that you’re placed in a row diagonally behind him. The second is that on the first day of the fall semester, you finally learn his name.

_ Nadir Saros. _

You turn it over in your head, silently mouth the consonants and vowels to yourself. If he’s not sleeping, he’s always fidgeting. Chewing on the end of a broken pencil, fiddling with the strings of his sweatshirt, scratching shapes into the hard plastic of the Virco desk.

The firm-mouthed instructor banishes him to the hallway every few classes for this ‘disruptive behavior.’ 

Nadir saunters out each time with a carefree grin and comes back in at the end of the period to collect his empty backpack and single unsharpened pencil. His nonchalance grates you like sandpaper against varnish. Maybe it’s the way consequences roll off of him like water off a duck’s back. You want to wipe that grin off his face.

By some stroke of good fortune, you get your chance just a few weeks later.

There’s an argument the day the teacher is out.

You recognize the kid. He’s a little scrawny and domestic-looking. He and his sister are in student council with you, you vaguely recall. What was his name again? Asahi?

The boy had loudly demanded Nadir stop tapping his foot and shaking the desk, a request to which the latter ignored completely. Asahi had reacted accordingly by standing up and raising his voice until heads began to turn. He falters, however, as the other boy rises from his seat to lean menacingly against his desk.

You know an opportunity when it presents itself, and get up from your seat as well.

“Is there a problem?”

You relish the way Nadir’s gaze flickers over you at last. It’s brief, but it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine.

“Your Radiance!” 

Asahi sounds relieved, almost comically so. You wince at the nickname. You declined to be addressed as ‘president’ when you initially received the role (it’s a gods damned student council anyhow), so it seems that he saw fit to continuously come up with new nicknames for you.

“Please, Asahi, we’ve gone over this. Just Zenos is fine.”

Your unofficial title rips a stream of strident laughter from Nadir, who doubles over as he gasps for air. You fight back the urge to flinch in humiliation. Asahi, on the other hand, is now livid.

“Silence! See, this is the sort of shameless behavior I’m talking about. You should know better than to interrupt a conversation between myself and his R—”

“Oh, my apologies,” Nadir cuts the other off with a menacing grin. “I didn’t realize we were in the presence of royalty _.”  _

You open your mouth to respond as well, but he continues.

“So, so sorry,  _ your Radiance, _ but that shit isn’t going to fly around here. You student council types may walk around like you own the place, but at the end of the day, this is a fucking piece-of-shit, craphole public high school. Not the goddamned White House.”

There’s something about the way he says  _ your Radiance  _ that pulls taut a string inside you. Your hand moves before your mind can process the action. There’s only the sensation of your knuckles splitting open against his cheek and a distant chorus of gasps.

The room is shifting uncomfortably in the shell-shocked silence of the aftermath, sunlight-splashed chairs screeching back against the waxy linoleum. The rest of the students circle about restlessly in agitated voices. Some girl runs out, presumably to fetch a teacher. Nadir heaves himself back up over the jumble of toppled desks and pushes away the proffered arms to swipe an arm across the blood streaking past his chin.

You take a half-step back to the thudding of your own erratic pulse and swallow.

“Hey, so the little prince has some balls, huh?”

He’s grinning still, blood in the cracks of his teeth gleaming in the backlight.

Ms. Dangoulain could walk through that door any minute now to witness your shameful outburst. But still, you remain immobile—fixed to the spot as he steps forward and connects his fist with the underside of your jaw.

There’s a burst of white across your vision; you think you bite your tongue somewhere along the way. The floor is cool against the stinging in your elbows and palms.

“If you wanna finish this, meet me in the back lot after school.”

He spits blood across your cheek as you’re left to blink the stars from your eyes. You’re vaguely aware of Asahi’s shrilling as you watch the distinct slouch of his backside disappear through the doorway in a trance. You gingerly wipe the red from your face and run a tongue over your fingers.

The taste of iron lingers in your mouth for the rest of the day.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise I'll make better on sticking to schedule the following chapter 🤞 See you next week!


	3. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, and Happy Friday!
> 
> This chapter features a few different WoLs from friends: Nada belongs to my lovely @ipomea here on Ao3. The rest of the gang is on twitter—Jo belongs to @400kDAMAGE, Aldea belongs to @veilofnight, and Capri belongs to @feywilde (@starscry on Ao3)
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!

**Nadir**

  
  


Some blond son of a bitch decked you in the face today.

You might’ve seen him around before—Student council president, a 5.0 GPA Ivy League candidate with a politician father as the cherry on top. Christ, they make you sick.

You mind your own business, mostly. Just enough to keep your school from contacting the group home. After 17 years of being shuffled around in foster care, you learn to keep your head down when you have to. But you don’t regret popping him in the jaw. The satisfaction of knocking that prick flat on his ass outweighs any potential consequences that await you at school tomorrow.

You and your buddies Nada, Jo, Aldea, and Capri are ditching to go juul behind the 7-Eleven the next block over. Your weekly allowance usually ranges anywhere from seven to ten dollars, so the five of you play up the usual routine where Aldea and Capri chat up the bored cashier while she rings up a single pack of gum so the rest of you can nick Slim Jims and cans of Monster from the cooler. 

It’s Nada’s juul and her pods, so she gets the first pick of the snacks. The rest of you begrudgingly sift through the remains in your usual hangout spot by the back alley. 

Your split lip and cut cheek garner a few snickers from your pals. You wave it off and reach for the juul while Nada bats at your hands.

“You’re seriously dumb as fuck,” she sniffs around her septum ring. “I can’t believe you’d pull that shit in Dangoulain’s class. You know what they say about her and Wyrmblood, right?”

Jo rolls his eyes and groans.

“Oh gods, don’t remind me. Nero’s been talking about it nonstop. I seriously couldn’t give less of a fuck if she’s got him chained up in some sex dungeon at home. I don’t want to hear about that shit.”

Capri chokes on her Monster, and Aldea frantically claps her on the back. You bark out a laugh and chug the rest of your own. Gods know you’ll need the energy later.

“You think he’s actually gonna show up?” Capri coughs out, once she’s caught ahold of her breath. “50 bucks says he won’t.”

Aldea knuckles her in the back of the head.

“You don’t even have enough to be betting with!”

You pluck the juul out of Nada’s hand for a hit and lean back to avoid a swing as she snatches it back from you. 

“Doesn’t matter to me if he does or not. I’ll give him half an hour tops before we call it a no-show. I got a 7 PM curfew, remember?”

 _“Like you’ve ever given a fuck about that,”_ Nada snorts under her breath, while you shrug it off.

.

.

.

To your surprise—or maybe not, he’s in the back lot by the time the last bell rings.

His Radiance is hard to miss, nearly 6 feet of solid muscle and a headful of silken flax that falls to his elbows. His dress shirt is rolled at the elbows now, and the top three buttons are undone. What is this, the Great fucking Gatsby?

You verbalize your annoyance with a loud click of the tongue.

“Couldn’t get enough of me, huh? I’m flattered, sweetheart. Really.”

Zenos stiffens for a second, and it’s enough time for you to launch yourself forward to land an elbow in his gut.

Shockingly, the motion doesn’t knock him off his feet this time. Instead, he catches you with a knee in the side, and it takes almost everything you have to jerk back without collapsing.

He’s got his fists up now, those baby blues assessing your every movement as you draw back and begin to circle him.

Shit, this guy’s for real, huh? Guess the incident back at school today was a lucky shot. That, or he’d allowed you to uppercut him in front of all those people on purpose. The thought sends a prickle of anger along the back of your neck. You lunge forward again, feinting to the right as his fist flies past your ear to land a blow to his chest.

Zenos moves back out of range too, and the two of you exchange jabs experimentally as you feel for a pattern.

The blows increase and become more rapid in succession as you both start to acquaint yourselves. You’re landing more hits and taking more too, the pain singing through your ribs, your shoulder, your flank. Meanwhile, the shadows begin to stretch long around the two of you.

He doesn’t look any better for it either at this point, a steady trickle of blood down his upper lip from a strike you landed across his nose. The little prince is like a new person here, in the space between your fists and the empty stretch of concrete. If Zenos was a statue before, there’s no sign of that icy exterior now. There’s a wildness in his eyes that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end.

He’s classically trained, it seems. But you’re used to fighting dirty. 

You make an exaggerated swing upwards to leave yourself open, and he goes for the bait. As he ducks the blow, you snatch up a fistful of that strawberry blond and shift your weight with a brutal twist.

There’s a flash of shock across his features, which you aren’t given enough time to truly appreciate as he drags you down onto the pavement with him.

Zenos gets one arm around your neck, and pins the other against his flank. His ragged breaths are hot against your skin, and flyaway strands of gold curtain your face as struggle for breath. The late afternoon sun glints off the rim of his bared canines, and you faintly realize that he’s smiling.

_“Yes, yes...just so.”_

He pants with exertion, but the barely restrained excitement in his murmuring makes your pulse jackhammer with adrenaline.

He’d almost look angelic if it weren’t for the blood dripping down his chin.

You feel the corners of your own lips tug upwards as you lock your arms around his ribs and buck upwards. The guy is heavy, but not so heavy that you can’t roll your shoulders to heft him off of you. 

His Radiance lands with an audible impact, but keeps his arm firm around your neck as he tries to flip you back over again.

_Hah, as if!_

You smack your palms against the ground to halt the movement and pull your weight back to pin the point of your elbow against his throat. He lets out a strangled grunt as you manage to plant a foot on the ground—only to wobble and collapse back on your side.

Through the roar of your own pulse and the blue-black spots blinking at the corners of your vision, you’re vaguely aware that he’s made no move to reach for you again.

You roll onto your back next to him, and it’s difficult to tell the difference between your gasps for air. You lay there in silence for a while, with nothing but the sky bruising purple overhead and your neck bruising red below.

As your breathing stabilizes, you turn and catch his eye. Maybe it’s the oxygen deprivation or blood loss, but he’s got this dazed, dopey look on his face that makes you snort.

Your mirth must be contagious because he begins to chuckle as well. The snickering turns into full-blown laughter that tugs painfully at your aching ribs. To your right, Zenos gurgles as he pushes himself off the ground, coughing out the remains of his nosebleed.

You sit up, with some effort, and clap him on the back until he stops. 

“Good fight,” you offer him a toothy grin. “You know, I wouldn’t mind doing this again some time.”

The other boy glances at you again, and there’s a hopeful glimmer in his eye. There’s a brief silence as Zenos tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“I’d like that,” he murmurs quietly.

  
  



	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday again!
> 
> A question for you all; would you prefer I release two chapters at a time from now on? For consistency, since they come in pairs from either POV. Please let me know in the comments if you could. Thank you again for reading!

**Zenos**

  
  


Since that afternoon, you and Nadir have met in the back lot almost every week now.

For the first time since you can recall, you have something to look forward to. You were forced to abandon all your after school activities that day, but you’ve reorganized your schedule to accommodate this new arrangement since then.

Chess club and youth orchestra practice are a non-issue, as they meet weekly. Debate practice cuts into your time after class, but you’re usually free by 4 PM. Student council is the only thing you can’t seem to reschedule. You’d resign or even forfeit your position as president if that were an option for you. Unfortunately, it’s probably the only extracurricular your father won’t let you quit.

Luckily, there’s at least one person you trust to assume responsibility in your absence. Your VP, a stoic girl named Yotsuyu, has agreed to act as a stand-in during the meetings you cannot attend. You’re not exactly close, but she doesn’t seem to be affected by your status as the other members. Her brother, on the other hand, is a different story.

Ever since you seemingly “came to his defense” that time in study hall, Asahi has reduced himself to little more than your very own limpet. Granted, he’s not the only one who clings to your side throughout the school day—since your transfer, you’ve steadily amassed a personal entourage of obsequious admirers despite your indifference to their presence. 

The one individual whose company you really  _ do  _ enjoy does not seek you out on campus. It’s no surprise; after all, you live in different worlds while school is in session. Even so, he no longer refuses to meet your eyes now. And as you catch a glimpse of hazel across the tops of students’ heads across the cafeteria, you try to lock his gaze for as long as you can, but he’s always the first to turn away. In study hall, too, he keeps to himself—tapping and gnawing and twiddling until he’s sent to stand outside.

But every Friday afternoon, as you stride towards the parking lot, he’s always leaning against a lamppost or squatting by the curb with a filched cigarette in hand—there to greet you with a crooked grin and a little mocking, two-fingered salute.

It’s really the only time you feel alive, as you’re ducking and swinging at each other beneath a pinkening sky. The weight of your father’s expectations, your responsibilities as student body president, the asinine drivel of your oleaginous classmates—they evaporate from your mind. There is only the rapid-fire thud of your pulse and the white-hot satisfaction of your muscles straining to the brink of overexertion.

It comes as a pleasant surprise when he doesn’t slink off immediately after the two of you call it a draw one afternoon.

“Hey,” he swipes blood from his nose and sits up on the concrete. “You down to go hang at 7-Eleven for a bit?”

You find yourself acquiescing, trying to mask the eagerness in your face as he helps you to your feet. His hands are just slightly smaller than yours and rough with callouses—the same hands that split your lip open only moments before. You lick at the wound absentmindedly as the two of you stroll down the block.

The 7-Eleven shines like a beacon in the early dusk, garish green and orange flickering overhead. Nadir saunters in and greets the cashier by name; it looks as though he’s quite familiar with this place. On the other hand, you feel awkward and completely out of your element. 

Your father didn’t exactly have time to take you shopping before as a child, and the nameless, faceless caretakers who raised you never brought you out for errands with them. You do recall going to tuxedo fittings for some formal thing or other for family business, but this marks the first time you’ve been inside a convenience store yourself.

The other boy slinks past you towards the row of refrigerated drinks and takes two cans from inside. You offer to pay, out of courtesy, and he doesn’t stop you.

There’s a pleasant chill in the air as the two of you venture back outside. Nadir perches on the railing while you lean against it beside him to sip at your drink.

You’ve had carbonated beverages before and aren’t too partial to them. But you don’t complain; he picked it out for you, after all. 

You pause to watch the other boy drink his own. Your eyes follow a drop of condensation as it trails down the line of his Adam's apple, glittering in the low light. Your throat feels dry.

“Let me try some of yours.”

He raises a brow but hands you the can nevertheless. The rim is stained with a thin ring of burgundy liquid. You press your lips against the opening and tilt your head back to the sweetness of artificial cherry. Beneath the deluge of sweetener and preservatives, you can taste a faint tang of nicotine and blood.

“I’m warning ya pal, you’re probably not gonna like it any more than that Pepsi.”

Nadir’s grinning at you, the white point of a canine flashing out as his lips pull upwards. You don’t. The flavor does not appeal to you, but you want more. He plucks the can from your hands as you go to take another drink—then hands it back sheepishly almost a moment later, as you blink at him.

“You’re gonna be bouncing off the walls once you get back home, that’s for sure,” he concedes while you down the rest. “Never thought I’d make a caffeine addict out of  _ you, _ though.”

Nadir is an animated talker. He gestures emphatically and exaggerates his expressions as he tells his stories. On more than one occasion, you find that he’s able to draw a genuine chuckle out of you. His eyes are keen as he listens to you talk in turn, and you find it surprisingly easy to converse with the other boy about your favorite topics—mostly theatre, the only thing your great grandfather deigned to instill you with a passion for, in your scant memories of him as a child.

Dusk falls too soon. The first twinkling of stars overhead causes Nadir to jerk up in alarm.

“Crap. I gotta get going before the supervisors notice I broke curfew again.”

You offer him a ride back, but he only shakes his head and laughs.

“What, in your chauffeured limo? I’d never hear the end of that from the rest of the guys at the home.”

The other boy grins a bit sheepishly.

“Thanks for offering, though. And uh, you know...for hanging out.”

Something twinges in your chest as you watch him disappear into the twilight, your pulse rattling around beneath your ribs. Maybe it’s the caffeine or just a side effect of being in his presence for such a prolonged period of time.


	5. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and Happy Friday again ^ _ ^
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Nadir**

  
  


“What, so you’re buddies with the student council president now?”

Nada has to raise her voice to a half-shout to be heard over the dull roar of the cafeteria. You’re at lunch with your buddies, and they’re currently grilling you over where you’ve been disappearing to on Fridays.

“Nah, not really,” you wave her off casually, and her eyes glint rust-brown in suspicion as she squints at you from across the table.“We mostly just meet up after school to beat the crap out of each other.”

Despite being a veteran member among your little gaggle of miscreants, Nada’s got a regal sort of bearing about her, with a swan neck and a feathery black pixie. You could definitely picture her as some long-lost Slavic royalty—when she isn’t opening her mouth to spout some caustic remark at you, that is.

As if sensing your thoughts, she chucks a grape at your head. 

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“HEY!” You scowl at her in mock incredulity as the offending fruit bounces off the ridge of your eyebrow. “You gotta understand, this dude’s got a major stick up his ass. Like, we’re talking the size of a log here.”

“Yea? Pretty sure we’re all aware of that.”

Nada snorts and rolls her eyes unsympathetically.

“Let me finish,” you insist around a mouthful of chips. “Look. The guy’s got no outlet. He’s all quiet and stuff at school, but  _ Christ, _ that Galvus kid hits hard. And honestly, he can be all right afterwards. All he needs is a good tussle.”

“Or to get laid,” Jo chimes in from next to her. You nearly spray chip crumbs all over Aldea, and she smacks you with an indignant yelp.

“So what exactly does that have to do with  _ you? _ ”

Nada’s got her arms crossed, and you grimace a bit. Come on, was it that serious? Your friends are acting like you went and made a pact with the Devil himself. If anything,  _ you  _ were the bad influence in this equation.

“What, a guy can’t act out of the generosity of his own heart? I’m helping him get it all out of his system! That way, he can be less of an ass at school. It’s like therapy or whatever, ya dig?”

She still looks skeptical but decides against saying anything else for the moment being. Nearby, the corners of Jo’s lips tug upwards indulgently as he takes a sip of soda. Whatever. They’re all making this out to be so much bigger of a deal than it actually is. 

Besides, you weren’t lying when you said Zenos was turning out to be a pretty decent guy in the span of time you’ve gotten to know him.

The little prince isn’t as stuck up as you’d initially believed. After all, he hadn’t said anything when you talked about your living situation. Most of those other preps he hangs out with would’ve gaped at you, slack-jawed.

You don’t know what came over you when you asked him to hang out one time afterwards. He looked a little dumbfounded but didn’t object. It’s actually pretty funny; you’d think it was the first time the guy ever set foot in a 7-Eleven.

But honestly, that didn’t seem too far off from the truth. It became painfully apparent just how sheltered Zenos was, once out of his element. He offered to pay for your snacks and watching his expression as he takes a sip of the Pepsi you grabbed for him along with your Monster Ultra Black is the most fascinating experience you’ve ever borne witness to. You end up choking on your drink and spending a good minute or so hacking it up, clutching your sides.

“What’sa matter, you’ve never had soda before?”

You jab at him teasingly after you manage to catch your breath. His stony silence only serves to send you back into hysterics, up until he reaches for your Monster.

“Let me try some of yours.”

Your eyebrows inch towards your hairline, but you dubiously pass the can to him.

“I’m warning ya pal, you’re probably not gonna like it any more than that Pepsi.”

But to your surprise, Zenos’ face is only contemplative after a sip. He pauses, then takes a longer drink, and you’re forced to snatch it up with an indignant noise before he chugs the whole thing.

The other boy looks so comically despondent turning back to his Pepsi that you find yourself heaving an exasperated half-sigh before just handing the drink back to him. 

“You’re gonna be bouncing off the walls once you get back home, that’s for sure,” you muse while you watch him steadily drain the entire can. “Never thought I’d make a caffeine addict out of  _ you, _ though.”

The two of you loiter around by the metal handrail outside the store while the shadows grow long around you, making idle conversation. You surprisingly have a lot to talk about, despite your different backgrounds.

If there’s anything you appreciate about him, it’s that he listens— _ actually  _ listens. The guy’s got a keen eye (or ear, you guess) for detail. He picks up on little things while you ramble, about your friends at school, about the kids you live with, about the frogs that keep escaping Mrs. Matoya’s biology classroom.

And when you listen to him in turn, you find out that he’s into theatre. Like, Shakespeare and shit, which you never really paid that much attention to because that stuff’s for nerds. But when Zenos describes the downfall of Macbeth, his disaffected tone becomes a luxuriant drawl, low and lilting as he gesticulates. It’s little wonder the little prince has a love for dramatics—the way he composes himself in public oozes regality. 

You know better, though. 

It fills you with an inexplicable sense of satisfaction, the intimacy of this knowledge. The same prodigious pupil your peers so look up to is the boy who grins a blood-stained smile while he digs red-and-blue welts into the sides of your neck, straddling you on cracked concrete.

It’s a secret he’s entrusted to you alone, and while you can’t really say you’re friends, you’re not quite sure what else to call it.


	6. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Happy Friday again. Things are slow right now, but it'll start picking up in the next couple chapters I prommy :]

**Zenos**

  
  


You bring a first aid kit with you one Friday.

Nadir guffaws when you pull it out, but it’s honestly a wonder why you didn’t start the practice sooner. The injuries you inflict on each other are never anything too serious, mostly just cuts and bruises, but the risk of infection is still there. He’s never complained about it before, though. It would seem that the two of you share a similarly high pain tolerance. 

The other boy is surprisingly apprehensive of having his wounds bandaged. It’s surprising in the sense that while Nadir can take a knee to the ribs and remain standing, yet a light dab of rubbing alcohol across split knuckles has him hissing and flinching away.

“Hold still,” you breathe, as he squirms beneath your touch. There’s an abrasion across the high point othe other boy’s left cheekbone, most likely a scrape from his earlier impact against the concrete. You keep a hand cupped under the line of his jaw as you turn his face towards you. It’s your first time seeing him so close, and you notice Nadir’s eyes are flecked with green-gold in the late afternoon sun. There are faint outlines of other cuts and scars along the bridge of his nose and jaw. 

Somewhere in between applying Neosporin and the occlusive bandage, your fingers brush against the cut. The action elicits a guttural sound from the other boy, some hybrid of a growl and a yelp that you’ve never heard from him in all your time spent brawling. The noise shoots a spike of warmth through your gut that startles you so much you drop the bandage in your lap as you flinch away.

“Sorry,” you mutter and hastily smooth the adhesive over his cheek. He mumbles a word of thanks and refuses to meet your eyes as he takes off.

The two of you are meeting less frequently now.

Homecoming season is around the corner, and Yotsuyu has been getting on your case about missing student council meetings.

“There’s really only so much I can get done without the president here,” she gripes to you as the meeting begins. “Not everyone else is as willing to accept my authority on decisions.”

The other members appear ecstatic about your return, a sentiment you can hardly begin to echo. Asahi beams as he begins to pile you with information about the current state of event plans and status reports you find difficult to bring yourself to care about. As menial as these tasks are, they’re a welcome distraction from the memory of that afternoon and that uncomfortable twisting sensation inside you.

That night, you have the first of those dreams.

It’s dark, and you can distantly make out the silhouettes of bodies around you. The air is stifling, and your own breaths catch in the back of your throat with every exhale. Hands, warm and calloused, trail up your side and settle on the small of your back. 

Teeth graze along your throat, and that familiar heat curls through your lower abdomen in elusive tendrils. Your mouth tastes of blood, cherries, and nicotine. Your vision is only smoldering hazel beneath a blue-black fringe.

Your surroundings are a gauzy blur. The body beneath you is pliant and supple as it writhes up against you, the solidity of a knee up between your legs. Your skin prickles, electric.

You hear that sound again, hot in your ear, low and raspy. It’s somewhere in between a growl and a yelp, and it fans the fire in your veins. Swells it into a bubble of heat that crests and spills over you with a whisper of your name.

You startle awake in a cold sweat and damp underwear.

.

.

.

The dreams quickly become a plague upon your sleep. You’re too paranoid about closing your eyes for long or risking the afterimage of a crooked smile on the backs of your eyelids. 

Your schedule has been packed as of late too, with the impending events of Spirit Week and Homecoming. There are budgets to be approved, announcements to be made, and a never-ending stream of tasks to be delegated among your council members. Your other extracurriculars begin to take a toll on you as well, and it must show because even Nadir notices.

He straightens up with a furrowed brow one afternoon when you fail to rise after he downs you with a punch. 

“Hey. The fuck is up with you? You didn’t even _try_ to dodge that.”

You glance up at him through bleary eyes as he stands over you. The other boy’s got a point. It’s unlike you to be so careless, but you’ve slept maybe a total of six hours throughout the course of this week, and your body is close to giving out at this point.

“Jesus, dude, you look like shit.” Nadir squats down to examine your face with a pensive stare. This time, it’s you who averts your eyes. “You know, I think we should call it off for a couple weeks. You’ve got enough on your plate without _me_ beating the crap out of you.”

Your eyes narrow, and a thousand protests build at the tip of your tongue: _I’m fine, I don’t mind it, not when it’s you._ What comes out instead is: “What, don’t think you can handle me anymore?”

He fixes you with a look of disbelief and throws his head back as he laughs incredulously. You wince as you struggle to your feet.

“Man, are you serious? Go get some sleep. You’re starting to sound a little loopy if you think that was supposed to egg me on.”

The other boy throws you his signature two-fingered salute as he saunters off, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself on your feet as you watch him walk away.


	7. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, I didn't notice I accidentally uploaded the last chapter twice until a friend let me know *__*;  
> Anyways, it's Friday again so you know what that means :] Enjoy!

**Nadir**

  
  


You actually haven’t met with Zenos for a few weeks now.

Between his student council activities and your plans with other friends, the weekly tussles are indefinitely postponed. The last time you saw him, the other boy looked more than a little under the weather.

Not that you’d admit it to anyone, but you kind of miss hanging out with him on Fridays. You have other friends, granted, but the same couldn’t really be said of Zenos. In the time the two of you have gotten to know each other, he’s made no secret about his disdain for the gaggle of students who’ve seen fit to make themselves his personal entourage. As far as you can tell, it would appear that you were (and are) his first and only friend.

The thought weighs heavily on your shoulders, but you can’t help feeling a secret measure of pride. You’re not one to pick and choose favorites among your friends—you would fight tooth and nail for any and all—but there’s no denying that you and Zenos have a unique understanding of each other. It’s an understanding built on weeks of sparring, a physical knowledge gained through testing the other’s limits. You’ve had the occasional scrap with other friends before, but the first day you met each other in that parking lot, you hadn’t been playing around. He hadn’t been either, you could tell. You had both gone in with the intent to win, no holds barred. Really. With the two of you, there were always teeth, nails, and potshots aplenty.

The blond started off with a very academic, sportsmanlike style at first—guard up, clean form. Over the course of a month, it seems as though your own habit of fighting dirty has rubbed off on him. But it’s not just that—he’s gone and made it his own. Zenos is an inhumanly fast learner. He only needs to be hit with the same technique twice to replicate it in its entirety.

You’ve taken to training harder in your free time just to keep up with him physically. There’s not much you’re allowed to do back at the home anyway, so most of your time is spent doing chin-ups and push-ups or whatever. Your strength, speed, and stamina have always set you above your peers before you’ve started sparring against the other boy. But now that you’ve met your match, your limits are being put to the test. It’s...exciting, to say the least. You can’t recall the last time you’ve fought against anyone so exceptionally talented. 

Though, the last time you two talked felt extraordinarily awkward. You chide yourself for forgetting that the other boy has a life outside of your time spent smacking each other around across an empty parking lot. You’d just have to wait until all this shit was over so things can go back to normal.

.

.

.

“You guys thinking about going to Homecoming?”

The conversation arises one morning during gym, as you’re idling by the bleachers with the girls. Jo has first-period chemistry with his boyfriend, so it's unlikely he would ditch to hang out with you.

Between the three of them, only Capri and Aldea are dressed for class and actively participating. Nada is reclining loftily across the metal benches, with faint neofolk streaming from her earbuds.

The class is playing field hockey today, which you’ve been indefinitely barred from participating in due to your history of getting aggressive with the stick. Hey, how does the coach put a blunt weapon in your hands and not expect you to use it? Besides, some of those brats deserve a good smack every now and then.

“Hellooo~? Earth to Nadir!”

Aldea smacks you across the shoulder, and you blink back into focus. The class is on a water break now, and both her and Capri have come to sit with you on the bleachers.

“Man, I dunno,” you run a hand through your bangs and sigh. “Those tickets are kind of expensive as fuck. I’d have to use up two weeks’ worth of allowance for that.”

“Just get your trust fund baby boyfriend to pay for you,” Nada interrupts without looking up from her phone. “Pretty sure he’s loaded anyway.”

You blink at her in confusion for a second.

_ “Huh?” _

The taller girl gives you a deadpan glare as if you were purposely playing dumb. Slowly, realization dawns on you.

“Wait a second, you mean  _ Zenos?” _

You gape for a second, then burst into side-splitting laughter. Nearby, Capri and Aldea stare at you uncomfortably.

“C’mon, you can’t be serious! There’s nothing like that between us.” The three of them exchange dubious looks, and you begin to feel a hint of exasperation. “We’re just friends, I promise.”

_ “Aha!  _ You said you weren’t friends with him before.” Nada smirks as you’re left to sputter. 

Okay, damn. She’s got you there.

“Hey, I changed my mind, okay? He’s pretty fun to hang out with, I’ll give you that.”

The girls give each other more knowing glances. Man, that’s really starting to tick you off.

“Give it a rest, will ya? I don’t swing that way, and neither does he. This is Zenos yae Galvus we’re talking about.”

Nada’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, and Capri stifles a snort behind her hands. Are they serious?

“Have you  _ seen  _ the way he looks at you?” the taller girl gestures emphatically. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but that guy eyes you like a prime rib roast whenever you’re in the same room.”

As if to prove her point, she jerks her head meaningfully in a direction from beyond your shoulder. You turn around discreetly and follow her gaze.

All three first period classes share the same gymnasium, and multiple PVC pipe goals have been set up along the length of the basketball court. Over the jumbled forms of uniformed students, you see the subject of your conversation at the other end. He’s dominating the field, movements lithe and graceful. As expected, of course. Zenos has at least a foot on most of the student body—maybe half a foot on other boys—but instead of slowing his movements or making him uncoordinated, Zenos’ longer limbs grant him the advantage of a further reach. You know this, only because you’ve faced off against him so many times yourself.

As if sensing your gaze, he finishes scoring against the other team’s frazzled-looking goalkeeper and catches your eye. You hesitantly hold your gaze this time instead of jerking away, and the blond smiles. It’s a genuine smile, one that you’ve only seen in glimpses during your time together at the parking lot or at the convenience store. You suddenly feel winded, like someone dropped a live goldfish into the pit of your stomach.

Other kids around him are beginning to stare, and you duck away before anyone spots you too. 

“Whatever. I guess if all of you are going, then I’ll tag along too,” you grumble and scratch at the back of your neck. Aldea lets out a happy shriek and puts you in a headlock to ruffle your hair despite your vocal protests. Girls. What can you say?


	8. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday :] tbh I am suffering tremendously rn but rain or shine I will always deliver ^ _ ^)b

**Zenos**

  
  


In the days leading up to Homecoming, every second of your time spent at school feels excruciating.

Besides the veritable mountain of work to be done about Spirit Week, organizing announcements, and the Homecoming venue itself—girls whose names and faces you can’t even begin to recall swarm your periphery.

Despite your popularity and affinity for theatrics, you’ve never been the best at one-on-one interactions outside of required group activities at school. You’re not one for social niceties. The way they giggle and bat their lashes at you in hopes that you’ll choose one of them as a Homecoming date has to be explained to you by Yotsuyu, who grows annoyed with your lack of understanding. 

“Never thought  _ this  _ would be a part of my job as vice president too,” she grumbles when you ask for her insight. You never spent much time around women growing up, as your mother passed away during childbirth. They are creatures as foreign to you as birds or butterflies—delicate and flighty. With the exception of Yotsuyu, of course. There’s an undercurrent of iron that belies her cold beauty, a staunchness that solidifies your trust in her as second-in-command. 

The frustration with these occurrences is that none of them dare to approach you about the subject outright. Instead, they crowd close to you at lunch and in the hallways, pester you for help on homework assignments, and casually graze against your arm as you walk. It’s irritating, but even your aloofness doesn’t seem to drive the point home. Your stoicism is taken at face value, misinterpreted as shyness.

There isn’t much you can do, despite your annoyance. Being your father’s son means that no action escapes the eyes of the public. You have a reputation to uphold. So you clench your jaw and bear it.

“The more you try to avoid the subject, the more you’re egging them on,” Yotsuyu remarks one day. “By keeping yourself available, they all still think they have a chance.”

You look up from the expense forms submitted to you for approval with a wrinkled brow.

“And if I don’t want to?”

“You should just hurry up and pick one, so the rest leave you alone,” she sniffs and examines her nails as she leans back in her chair. “It’s really not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be. It’s a school dance, not a marriage proposal.”

Her nonchalance strikes a familiar chord within you. You shift in your seat, and an idea forms in the ether.

“Can I ask you another favor?”

Yotsuyu looks up—first in confusion, then a mixture of indignation and disgust as she realizes your meaning.

“I’ll owe you again,” you add hastily.

“You owe me  _ big, _ ” she hisses. “If you go around announcing me as your date,  _ I’m  _ going to be taking the piss from the rest of those girls, you understand? Not everyone around here is as untouchable as you.”

A small measure of guilt floods the back of your mind. You  _ have  _ asked a lot of her. But you genuinely do not have the energy to deal with any of the girls currently vying for your attention. You just need to keep up appearances for the night of the dance and get it over with.

.

.

.

The venue itself is just the school gym. Eorzea High doesn’t have much of a budget compared to private schools like Garlemald and Ishgard. Luckily, if there’s anything the administration put emphasis on, it’s athletics. While the school buildings themselves were nothing to write home about, the sports facilities are impressive enough to rival those of private institutions.

Tonight, the full-length basketball courts are bedecked in blue and white streamers—school colors. Ms. Ul Namo, the principal, is never one to pass on Eorzean school spirit no matter the occasion. Despite what concessions the council had to make regarding the decor, however, the setup isn’t half bad.

The blue mood lighting sparkles across the various crystal ornamentation fixed overhead, giving off the illusion of brightness in an otherwise relatively dark space. Yotsuyu had insisted you make room in the budget for fog machines, and it turns out to be an excellent decision on her part. The depth provided by the clouds of dry ice serve well to obscure the gym equipment that won’t fit in storage.

By 8:45 PM, the entrance floods with new arrivals. The cutoff date for entry is 9 PM, and most students like to go out and grab dinner before they head over. You and the rest of the council had to arrive at 7:00 to prep music and drinks. 

Yotsuyu dons a black satin midi with a lacy collar reminiscent of a spider’s web. She’s wearing a red corsage to match your tie, a rose the color of old blood framed by spider lilies. The two of you arrived as a date, but you mostly keep to yourselves—her making conversation with Coach Daito in the corner, and you attempting to tune out Asahi as he tries to engage you in pointless conversation. He’s surprisingly hostile towards his sister when not in school, as you chanced to observe earlier. The way the secretary’s face did a 180 after he spotted you approaching might’ve been described as comical if his actions hadn’t been another stick of firewood on the steadily-growing pyre of your annoyance. You wouldn’t say that you and Yotsuyu are friends, but if anything you’re at least on amicable terms. Besides, there’s nothing you find more tiresome than small-minded behavior.

As the crowd around you thickens, you can’t help but scour the sea of heads for Nadir. It’s unlikely that he’s even attending tonight. Yet, some unknown compulsion has your eyes darting across every silhouette anyway. It’s more a reflex than a conscious thought.

The two band students who volunteered to DJ for the night have started off with a mellow deep house, and the steady thrum of bass vibrates through your sternum. Unfortunately, your retinue of “companions” spot you among the masses, and have quickly swarmed to your side like agitated insects. A few of the girls fawn over your suit and tie, fluttering and sparkling in their jewelry and chiffon like exotic birds. You shift uncomfortably, but make no effort to move away. Instead, you busy yourself with a cup from the punch bowl.

An agonizingly long amount of time passes before the music pauses to allow the PR Director to announce the Homecoming Court. You don’t recall being nominated in the first place, but someone must have done so without your permission. This, along with a surge of annoyance and dread, spring forth as the girl at the podium pronounces you a Homecoming prince with a blinding smile.

There’s an undercurrent of customary applause and hooting from the crowd. A few of your acquaintances lament that you couldn’t be crowned king, though it wasn’t feasible in the first place considering you’re only a junior this year.

Yotsuyu reluctantly makes her way up to accompany you to the stage as you receive your sash. The spotlight is blinding as you take your place in line. It may be the spots in your eyes, but you can almost swear you see a flash of hazel amidst the illuminated faces of the crowd. The PR Director announces the rest of the court as you furrow your brow, squint against the light to try and catch a further glimpse.

Your efforts are rewarded with a distinct blue-black mop of hair, weaving in between the jumble of suits and evening dresses. The girl starts going down the line of winners, holding out her mic for short self-introductions. She’s only two people away, but you’re too focused on sifting through the crowd to care. 

The top of the head you’re transfixed on shifts upward, and your stomach flips violently as you catch a glimpse of Nadir’s face unobstructed.

You detect a flicker of consternation over his features, before blinking back into focus on the microphone in front of your face. The PR Director is looking at you expectantly, as are the rest of the court. You’re suddenly aware that it’s your turn to speak.

Downstage, Nadir’s face disappears from view as he turns away to melt back into the haze of blue silhouettes. You feel yourself jerked back by Yotsuyu before you realize you’re stepping forward to chase after him. 

You clench a fist at your side for a moment before plastering on a more genial expression as you quickly mutter words of thanks for your nomination.

When you search the audience again, he’s nowhere to be found.


	9. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry Today's chapter is a bit late, but here it is. Happy Friday, and enjoy!

**Nadir**

  
  


On the evening of the dance, you get permission from the supervisors at the home to attend on the promise that the event will be chaperoned by faculty and take place on campus. 

It’s still a hassle, but you manage to slip out by 8:30. Your friends wrangle you into a black button-up as soon as you meet up with them at Capri’s house, much to your discomfort. Aldea makes a valiant attempt at smoothing back your hair, with a result that garners mixed reactions from the other three.

“You’re wearing  _ jeans  _ to Homecoming?” Nada grimaces at you, glittering in black and red diamonds from her perch on the sofa. You scowl at her while Aldea tries to yank a comb off the back of your head.

“I already told you, I don’t  _ have  _ anything else.”

“He’ll be fine!” Capri chirps as she emerges from the closet. “Besides, chicks totally dig that bad-boy vibe. Check this!” She grins and strikes a pose in her own leather jacket. Jo offers polite applause while Aldea whistles and puts on a show of swooning.

You shrug and crack a weak smile as the five of you shuffle out the door towards campus. Luckily, Capri’s house is only a street away. It’s five to 9:00 by the time you slip through the gymnasium doors.

Heavy bass reverberates through the building. Stray elbows and shoulders jostle you as you squeeze your way through the crowd. Aldea and Capri have clasped hands with you in an effort not to lose each other amidst the throng of moving bodies, and you catch a sliver of Nada and Jo from behind as they wind their way towards the refreshments.

Most of the food is gone at this point, but there’s still about half a bowl of punch left. Nada discreetly produces a water bottle from the depths of her fur coat and dumps Smirnoff into the remnants.

The five of you quickly serve yourselves and hustle off with your red Solo cups in hand before any chaperones catch a whiff of your actions. Capri makes off to dance with a diminutive redheaded girl named V’kebbe, and Jo excuses himself to find Nero. Aldea is chatting up a regal-looking out-of-towner from Saint Halone’s. You turn to complain to Nada about everyone’s sudden departure, but she’s already slinking off towards a stocky, timorous boy who’s been gawking at her and twiddling his thumbs since you all walked in.

Great. All your friends nag you into coming here, then ditch as soon as you all walk in. You shrug it off, albeit begrudgingly. You might as well try and make the most of your time here since you ended up paying for tickets after all. The student council did a pretty good job, you muse to yourself. The lighting and decorations are impressive. You wonder if Zenos helped set them up. Truth be told, you were hoping to see him here even though there was little chance for either of you to talk with this many people around. You tend to avoid him on campus anyway, more for his sake than yours. He’s got a reputation to keep while you take full advantage of the fact that you don’t. 

A couple of Catholic school girls dart inquisitive glances in your direction, then flush and turn away as you throw them a mischievous wink and grin. That’s the best part about fresh faces; it’s not like you could garner such a reaction out of people you see on a daily basis. You’re aware of the effect you can have on girls at school—namely the “normal” ones. There’s the push-pull of fascination and repulsion with your looks, your delinquency, your attitude. In class, they’ll chide you for tapping your foot, for talking back to the teacher, and turn their noses in the air. But in whispers between the halls and at lunch, they tease each other and giggle over the minute interactions you share, whether it be flicking eraser shavings at the backs of their chairs or chewing on the ends of the pencils they lend you.

You recline alone against the cold concrete wall with your drink and wait. The bolder ones muster up the courage to ask you to dance, and you accept. Maybe for the acetone burn of vodka down your throat, or maybe for a lack of anything better to do. You’re not that great at dancing with a partner, but the doe-eyed girl you’re currently with seems content to sway to the rhythm and grind up against you.

You’re grateful for the interruption as the music stops for some sort of announcement on the stage on the other side of the gymnasium. Some girl is calling out names into a microphone. Oh yeah, Homecoming court. Right. You’ve never really paid much attention to that stuff in the past, so you’re unfamiliar with most of the names she announces. One name, however, jolts you back to sobriety in an instant.

_ “And our junior Homecoming prince is….Zenos yae Galvus!” _

You squeeze through the clump of people at the foot of the stage for a closer look. There, illuminated by the spotlights into a fine-spun gold, Zenos stands with a girl on his arm. He’s in a sharp-cut black suit, accented with a garnet tie and ruby cufflinks. His date is color-coordinated to a tee, with an embroidered dress and a matching red corsage. They look every bit as fitting of the title bestowed upon them.

You know it’s just a stupid school event, that it doesn’t really mean anything—but at that moment, you barely recognize the boy up onstage. You may as well be looking at a stranger. It suddenly hits you that despite all the time you spent together, you live in two completely different worlds. He’s a star student on track to the Ivy Leagues after graduation with a future ahead of him. You’re a fucking nobody who’s been shuffled around in foster care as long as you can remember, and while you no longer quite care about where your life is headed, it means that there’s no way the two of you can remain friends. And it shouldn’t bother you—but it does. You feel something writhing uncomfortably in the hollow of your sternum.

You can’t put a name to the feeling, but you want it gone. So, you down the rest of your drink and make a beeline for the punch bowl. Your friends are nowhere in sight, and you busy yourself with a refill to burn away the knot in your chest.


	10. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friday again....hi lol
> 
> Also, I went back and fixed the order of the chapters because JEEZ that shit was completely unreadable so my apologies for not catching that sooner -__-
> 
> Warning for some kissing/fondling this chapter but it's like 2 minutes nothing serious.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Zenos**

  
  


_ “What’s the matter with you?” _

Yotsuyu hisses in your ear as soon as the ceremony is over. You jerk free from her death grip on your arm and continue to scan the crowd for any signs of Nadir.

“Nothing. I was distracted for a second.”

She doesn’t buy your excuse for a minute and regards you with a piercing stare.

“You looked like you saw a  _ ghost.”  _

Her tone forces you to hold back an involuntary shudder. She’s not half wrong.

“I’m not as clueless as you think, Zenos.” Yotsuyu crosses her arms. “Listen. I don’t know where it is you’re going every Friday, but you’re not exactly good at hiding those injuries.”

This show of concern is surprising, to say the least. You would feel much more appreciative of the gesture if you weren’t currently preoccupied. You turn to her and put on a resolute face.

“Your concern is appreciated, but I can assure you there’s no need.”

She falls silent and chews her lip with a pensive expression, as if worried about overstepping boundaries as your classmate and co-council member. 

“I guess all I wanted to say is...if you’re having a hard time, don’t be afraid to let someone know.”

The statement stops you in your tracks. You process it for a minute, and fight back the urge to laugh. Her assumption couldn’t be further from the truth. You’ve always worn them as keepsakes, but you can see how the red and purple blossoms across your neck and the scrapes along the length of your cheekbones could incite concern out of context. You absently brush fingers against the place on your jaw where Nadir first punched you that day and smile fondly. Yotsuyu’s eyes narrow in suspicion as she begins to connect the dots.

“Wait, don’t tell me. Is it that boy from your study hall who—”

You turn and begin weaving your way through the pulsating bodies before she can finish. The lights overhead strobe alternately between blue and red. 

Arena rock floods the gymnasium, the low roar of bass guitar and the crowd sounding in tandem with the rush of your own pulse. Your throat feels parched. Half-drunk cups of punch line the refreshments table, and you swipe one at random before downing the entire thing. There’s an acrid aftertaste that catches in your throat that causes you to sputter a bit. Someone must’ve spiked the punch, of course. 

You keep searching, pushing through the waves of dancers. The heat of the bodies surrounding you feel amplified by the buzz in your head, and you find yourself shedding your suit jacket and loosening your tie. A thin film of sweat plasters your dress shirt to your back, your hair to your temples.

As you push your way through the thick of the crowd, you spot him. 

You almost don’t recognize your friend at first; he’s reclined against the bleachers, face obscured by the girl currently straddling his lap. You don’t recall seeing her around at school before. Her hair falls in soft curls down the back of her red minidress, a shade lighter than your own strawberry blond. 

You feel your knees lock into place. Your periphery dims until they’re the only occupants in your field of view. 

You know.

You know you have no monopoly over Nadir; the two of you spend your time separately at school. It’s not any of your business where he goes or what he does in his free time. 

You may be friends, but that friendship only exists in a certain time and place. Besides, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that there are girls attracted to him. Nadir is undeniably good looking in a charming, roguish way. Maybe, it’s just that you never had the chance to see him in that light. It feels wrong, it feels voyeuristic, to be watching him in this state. But somehow, you can’t seem to tear your eyes away.

He’s trailing a hand across the curve of her spine, stopping to rest atop the junction of her thigh. You’ve never seen this side of him before. His actions are sensual, almost tender. She’s leaning in to brush her lips along his ear while he traces the line of her neck with his tongue. You think you catch a flash of that snaggletooth under the dim flashing of blue and red. 

They’re kissing, you realize as she tilts down with a handful of his collar in her fist. He’s combing a hand through her hair to cup the back of her head. It’s as if you’re underwater, or an invisible observer in a dream. Your limbs scream out at you to move; that should be  _ you  _ there on his lap _ , your  _ hand trailing a hand up his shirt, it should be  _ you _ —

At that moment, the girl shifts back for a breath and you make eye contact with him—blue on hazel. The world seems to slow to molasses. The pounding of the music and the alcohol in your bloodstream blend together into a dull roar that rings in your ears.

He regards you with a dumbfounded expression at first. There’s a flash of recognition, and something else you can’t pinpoint. In a second, he schools his features back into neutrality. The girl on his lap is displaced as he moves her aside to stand up, and your knees almost buckle in relief. You feel yourself stumble and trip over a few dancers, clattering empty red plastic cups across the sticky floorboards.

By the time you look back, you only manage a glimpse of his silhouette backlit by the fluorescent glow of the distant bathroom doorway.

**Author's Note:**

> This will update every Friday, so stay tuned and thank you for reading!


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